Persephone
by Camberleigh Fauconbridge
Summary: "Then, at last, after a fortnight of that horrible captivity, during which I was filled with pity, enthusiasm, despair and horror by turns, he believed me when I said, 'I will come back' 'And you went back, Christine.'" One-shot.


**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: My first bookverse _Phantom_ piece! I wrote this in about two days, so I hope it's decent.

* * *

_I was in the middle of a drawing-room that seemed to me to be decorated, adorned and furnished with nothing but flowers, flowers both magnificent and stupid, because of the silk ribbons that tied them to baskets, like those which they sell in the shops on the boulevards. They were much too civilized flowers, like those which I used to find in my dressing-room after a first night. And, in the midst of all these flowers, stood the black shape of the man in the mask…_

"_You will be free, Christine, for, when those five days are past, you will have learned not to see me; and then, from time to time, you will come to see your poor Erik!" He pointed to a chair opposite him, at a small table, and I sat down, feeling greatly perturbed. However, I ate a few prawns and the wing of a chicken and drank half a glass of tokay, which he had himself, he told me, brought from the Konigsberg cellars. Erik did not eat or drink…_

* * *

Christine, all of twelve years old, sat in a ladylike fashion at the old woman's feet, patiently waiting. Raoul, only two years older, leaned against the wall. The sky was clear, the air was warm, and one could hear the distant oceanic roar in the background.

"What to tell, what to tell..." the old woman murmured. "I suppose you're heard of the korrigans and the gremlins and fairies, now?" Christine nodded. "I'll tell you the story of Persephone and Hades. Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes, please," said Christine. "But who is Peres— Perse—"

"Her name is Persephone, child, but I'll get to it.

"Persephone was the daughter of the goddess of the harvest. She was the most beautiful girl in the world, and all the men, whether human or god, pursued her in vain.

"The god of the underworld, Hades, soon fell madly in love with the lovely Persephone. Now Persephone had a regular habit of going to fields of flowers and picking beautiful bouquets to give to the harvest goddess, her mother. Hades went to the field where Persephone was preparing a bouquet and— well, he took her to his home in the underworld. Persephone's mother, the harvest goddess, searched all over the earth for her daughter, but in vain, for the goddess did not go to the underworld. In her despair, the harvest goddess forbade the earth to produce its fruits until she found her daughter.

Hades made Persephone the queen of the underworld. For two days, Persephone wept, refusing to see Hades or anyone else. Finally, on the third day, she went to Hades and begged, "Lord king and husband, let me go above ground to see my mother." Hades, unable to see Persephone weep, promised that he would allow her to, but only if she ate the seeds of a pomegranate. Persephone ate three seeds of the twelve from the pomegranate, not knowing that by eating of the fruit of the underworld, she would be bound to stay there until the rest of her days.

But because Hades loved Persephone, he let her go above to seek her mother. The harvest goddess was overcome with joy to see her daughter and allowed the earth to produce its fruits once more.

The harvest goddess, not wanting to lose her child, made a contract with Hades: Persephone would spend three of the twelve months with Hades in the underworld, but the other nine months, Persephone would be allowed to return to the land above and be with her mother. This is how we came to have the four seasons: autumn and winter, when Persephone was with Hades, and spring and summer, when Persephone was with the harvest goddess."

The old woman leaned back in her chair. "Well? Is that an equal to the korrigans?"

"Oh yes, thank you, madame," Christine replied.

"You look sad, child. Why?"

"The story is sad," Christine said simply. "Peres—"

"— Persephone—"

"— she has to be separated from her mother. And she doesn't love Hades. Does she?"

"No, child, she doesn't."

"Oh. I feel sorry for her."

"It's only a fairytale," the old woman said.

"I know. But does that mean I can't feel sorry for her?"

Raoul got up and kissed the back of the old woman's hand. "Thank you, madame, for the story."

"Can't we stay for another one, Raoul?"

He shook his head. "I have a violin lesson with your father. You can stay if you want."

"No, I'll come with you." Christine kissed the woman's dry, papery cheek. "Thank you, madame."

"Come back anytime, children," the old woman called as Christine and Raoul started walking up the gravely path. "I always have more stories."

They couldn't have known that Persephone's trials would parallel their own.

* * *

"I can't just leave him, Raoul!"

The setting sun bled over the roof of the opera house. Apollo stood majestically and yet somehow mockingly, as if he had just told Hades where to find Persephone. The air was still the balmy air of summer, like it had been that day so many years before.

"You can't know what it's like! He cries those horrible tears from his yellow eyes, and he kisses the hem of my dress, and he begs me so desperately to return that I— I can't not say yes!"

"You have to, Christine! He's put everyone here in danger— he's put _you_ in danger! Surely you realize that! The chandelier wasn't trivial, Christine!"

"I know!" Christine's eyes were filling with frustrated tears. "_I know that!_ But it would kill him if I left! He's been my mentor for _three years_, Raoul—"

They heard a sudden moan of pain, coming from what seemed to be Apollo. It had to be a person— yet they were the only two on the roof.

"Do you _like_ this, Christine?"

"Of course I don't! Do you think I like having to go down through the catacombs and _the Commune_ and be locked in his house by the lake and never see a ray of sunlight and—"

She stopped.

Then she breathed out a word, so quietly Raoul could barely hear it.

"_Persephone_."

Raoul stared at her. "Christine..."

"Persephone! The— the fairytale that the old woman told us that summer in Perros!"

"Are you saying..."

"It— it fits, Raoul! He takes me to his house beneath the opera and he refuses to let me see anyone and—" she laughed, a little hysterically— "he doesn't even eat anything when I do! Oh, God, what twisted fairytale is this?"

Raoul took hold of Christine's shoulders. "Christine, listen— _listen to me_. This is not Persephone, this is our reality, Christine!"

"But don't you see? Don't you see how it fits, in a sick way?"

"_Christine_—"

"You don't believe me, any more than you did about the Angel of Music!"

Raoul sighed, releasing Christine's shoulders and stepping away. "I do believe you. I'll be the harvest— god, I guess— but you can't keep going back and forth! Either you stay in his underworld, or you stay in the spring, here. Or are you not like Persephone— do you love him?"

"I— I don't know! I don't know, Raoul! He terrifies me, but I can't help but pity him! How does that make sense? If only Papa was here..."

"Christine—" He took her hands in his, forcing her to look at him. He almost spoke something in the back of his mind— but instead he said gently, "I don't think your father would want you to be under so much stress. Do you still like working at the Opera?"

"Yes, of course." Christine seemed to wilt before his eyes. "It's my life."

"All right." He embraced her. "Just try to— what is it... just focus on the music, Christine. Isn't that what your father used to say?" She nodded. "Doing what you love will see you through all this."

"Yes. Thank you, Raoul. I—"

Then he remembered.

"They're waiting for you, for the performance."

Her gray eyes widened. "Oh my goodness— I forgot! The chandelier, and Buquet— and— what would I do with you, my dear, dear friend? We're going to have to run if I'm going to make it in—"

She turned to go, but Raoul grabbed her arm, stopping her. Why, he did not know.

She paused, not looking at him. "...time," she finished quietly.

Neither knew what to say. "Christine, I..."

Then, for no reason that he could see, tears started falling from her eyes, streams that shone in the dying sun.

"Christine... what's wrong?"

Christine did not answer, but her tears thickened. She leaned into Raoul, burying her face in his shoulder, and began sobbing. As he embraced her for the second time that night, Raoul could only guess that the stress was finally catching up with her. After a time, she grew quiet. She didn't seem to realize how close they were, for she drew in a breath and raised her head, to say something. The corners of their lips met, clumsy and accidental.

After a split second, they broke apart.

They stared each other, trying to figure out what exactly had happened, and why it had happened, and...

But then the rusty metal door burst open and a stagehand bolted as carefully as he could across the roof. "Mlle. Daaé! Mlle. Daaé, you need to be back at the performance!"

"I'm so sorry! I'm coming!" Christine called out, turning and picking up the skirt of her costume. She looked back at Raoul.

"Raoul?"

"Let's go, Christine. They are all waiting for you."

"I know, but—" She looked uncertain. "You're not going to just— forget about— this?"

He smiled. "I couldn't even if I wanted to. I just don't want this Persephone and Hades metaphor to persist."

She turned to face him fully. "Neither do I," she said resolutely. Then she smiled brilliantly. "Let's go."

Following the stagehand, they left the roof, unaware that the Hades in their story was hiding behind Apollo.


End file.
